


“Funny, how just when you think life can’t possibly get any worse it suddenly does.”

by notjustmom



Series: Towel Day 2018 [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Douglas Adams, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sally is a good egg, Towel Day 2018, angsty fluff, boys finally talk, minor injury, they are still idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 13:59:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14895899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: Or, how Sherlock learned to not only throw away empty milk cartons, but buy the milk. Especially on Sundays.





	1. Chapter 1

It was a Sunday.

Of course it was a Sunday, to Sherlock's mind the most useless of days. Everything slowed to a snail's pace, until it didn't. 

But wait, we're getting ahead of ourselves. Let's go back to the beginning. Well, not precisely the beginning, that would take, well, forever and we don't have quite that long. In fact, we have just long enough for Sherlock to consider charging out of his chair, the chair he had been sitting in for the last six hours, no, maybe it was seven, as his brother was walking down the hallways towards him. 

You see, he didn't think the evening, well, now morning-ish, he thought, though it could be afternoon, could get worse, until it did.

It all started on Saturday, really, when he finished the pint of milk and put it back in the fridge as he always did. He was going to do something about the milk, honestly, he was going to. No, really. Okay, maybe not. But, then they got called for a case, a brilliant, tricky one, but still, it only took them eight hours from start to finish. And he was going to remind John about the lack of milk as they passed by Tesco, he was, but then John stopped in front of him, and looked at him in that way.

Yes. That way.

The way that made Sherlock's brain fizzle to a dead stop, as John's eyes twinkled at him, before he pulled him nearly into a kiss, but stopped just short to whisper against his lips, 'have I told how bloody brilliant you are today? No? Oh, dear, we will have to remedy that. Get a cab. NOW.'

So, naturally, he got a cab, forgetting all about the milk, or rather the lack of milk.

And it didn't matter until later that morning. Much later, after John had bolted up, nearly falling out of bed from a nightmare. The one nightmare he didn't tell Sherlock about. He knew it was that one from the way he whimpered out his name before Sherlock was able to bring him back from wherever his mind had gone to, then abandoned John there. And of course, John then needed tea. And of course -

"There's no bloody milk. There's a carton, which usually holds milk, sitting in the spot where the milk usually sits, but there's no milk in the bloody carton...."

Sherlock swore quietly to himself as he heard John continue on. "And I know it wasn't me, who left an empty carton in the bloody fridge, because I don't leave empty cartons in the fridge..." He dressed as quickly as he could and took a deep breath, ready to face whatever John could throw at him, either metaphorically or literally, one was never quite sure, though it had been a while since he had actually thrown anything at him, and he had terrible aim, especially when he forgot and used his right hand - but John was gone. And the flat door was open.

 

Damn. At least John had been dressed, right? He closed his eyes. Yes. He had silently disentangled from Sherlock's arms and showered, dressed without a word, then gone to the kitchen and switched on the kettle, gone downstairs to get the Sunday paper, returned, dropped the paper on the counter, must have seen a headline which set him fuming. Sherlock wasn't sure why John actually read the front page - there were never any interesting possibilities for cases on the front page... sorry. Drifting. Back to the point. What was the point again? Right. Milk. John had gone out to get milk. Without kissing him.

John never left without kissing him, and telling him that he loved him.

Shit. He had done it this time. Finally. The last straw. No. John would be back. He would go to the Tesco down the street, buy the milk, and remember that they were nearly out of jam and he would pick up the biscuits that Sherlock loved, because he had remembered that Sherlock always left empty pint cartons in the fridge, even now - then he would leave Tesco, perhaps pause to pet a dog, smile at a baby in a pram, take a breath and let it go, maybe stop and listen to that busker on the corner who was always there on Sunday, and drop a couple of pounds in his case. And he would be home any minute. 

Right? 

Right. 

He fell onto the couch and closed his eyes, for just a moment, and when he opened his eyes again -

 

Dark. Why is it dark? It shouldn't be - he pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at it. Off. He had turned it off. He never turned it off, except, when. He had turned it off last night after John had looked at him in that way, after that brilliant case. Turn it on. Come on. Turn it on - if it was bad, really bad - they would come to the flat. 

Right? 

Righ - wait.

John. John wasn't home, hadn't come home. Not since. Not since he left after leaving without kissing him. Without a word.

"Sherlock!" A bang at the door. Lestrade. Not good. Fuck. "Open the door! You aren't answering your texts. Why is your door locked? It's never locked. SHERLOCK!" Lestrade didn't yell. Fuckfuckfuckety - "About time. What is going on? I've been trying to get a hold of you. And with your brother out of town doing god knows what - it's dark in here - you were sleeping? What the hell is - well, it doesn't matter at the moment. You need to come with me. NOW."

Sherlock nodded and slipped into his shoes, then grabbed his coat from the hook, even though it was the middle of June, then walked over to John's desk to grab his laptop. "Won't be much good without the charger, and he needs his toothbrush, and a change of clothes, and a book, he hates being bored, and he has been trying to finish this for months. I offered to rell him the ending, but he wants to find out for himself... badly plotted, wrong murderer, they always choose the easiest solution...."

"Sherlock. SHERLOCK? We do need to go. I'll come back and get his things..."

"Right." Sherlock dropped the laptop, and turned on his heel to dash down the stairs, only to find Donovan behind the wheel of a panda. She wasn't smiling. Or smirking. She looked scared. Shit. Can this day get worse? Of course it can. It will. Because -

"He's at Bart's. There was a - well, a hold up at Tesco. A couple of masked blokes. John was swearing at the chip and pin, and he looked up, could somehow tell the two blokes were vets...."

Sherlock didn't remember toppling into the back seat, and fastening his seat buckle when Donovan reminded him, in a hoarse voice, as if she had been yelling. And he didn't remember how he got to the plastic chair, or why he was sipping hot coffee when it was hotter than Hades and he wasn't even wearing his coat, but he was cold somehow.

"... and he was trying to talk them down, luckily the shop wasn't busy, it was a Sunday, not a lot of cashiers on, which was why he was using the machine, I know from the blog he hates using the things. He must've been trying to get home quick... you two had a domestic, didn't you? He couldn't call us, guess he'd left his phone at home, it wasn't in his pockets when they brought him in, and he didn't have his wallet on 'im, so it took time to get him identified, luckily Donovan was at Bart's picking up a report from the morgue, she happened to be there, I was - out of reach for a bit, and she was afraid to call you on her own, and then once I knew... anyway. He had settled them enough so he knew their names and ranks, and they had almost put their guns away, when this off-duty rookie got delusions of grandeur..."

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling and swore. They hadn't told Lestrade anything, just that he was in surgery, and wouldn't tell him anything, as they weren't officially 'family'. John was going to change his person to contact in case of emergency, but they had been busy, too busy, Always too busy. There would always be a case, or an experiment or something. But they had never been too busy before... he blinked, then closed his eyes tightly. No. Nope. There was no possible fucking way. Not toda - and then he heard him before he saw him. The tap of his shoes, and that single solid thwack of the umbrella tip hitting the floor. Lestrade must have realised the only way he was going to get news about John was if the British Government intervened on his behalf, but still the fact that he had to deal with -

"He's going to be fine, Sherlock."

"Hmm? What?"

"I talked to the nurse, and after I made it abundantly clear that you were not only his only family, but indeed his partner, she was more than happy to inform me that he was being moved to the ICU, and that you could sit with him all night if you wished. I indicated that I would relay the news to you, to save her further embarrassment. Understand that he will probably be unconscious for the next few hours, he did lose quite a bit of blood, though she did tell me that he was awake when they brought him in, and he was trying to find you, he was worried about you, Sherlock. May I suggest, in the future, that you buy the milk from now on?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I will take my leave of you now, unless you require anything. I was in the middle of a tense negotiation -"

Sherlock considered making some smart-arse remark regarding cake or his diet, but it got stuck in his throat. He shook his head, and laid a trembling hand over his brother's and was rewarded by the sound of the umbrella clattering to the floor. 

"Thank you, Myc."

"Of course, give my regards to Dr. Watson. Do not hesitate to call if you have any other difficulties." And then he was gone. Sherlock was still amazed how easily his brother could do that, appear and disappear, seemingly at will.

"Mr. Holmes? You can see him now."


	2. Chapter 2

John rubbed his face and knew without even opening his eyes that he wasn't at Baker Street. He tried to take a deep breath and nearly cried from the pain in his chest. Great. Just fucking great. In hospital again. It's too real to be a dream, a dream, even a nightmare doesn't actually have that hospital scent. So, he had somehow got himself stuck in a hospital bed. Again. His own stupid fault if he recalled correctly, because he had...

Oh.

No.

He had left Baker Street in a snit over the stupid empty milk carton. No, it wasn't just that, it was the nightmare, then the headline on the morning paper, then no milk for his tea. He remembered bellowing about the milk carton... and then he had left, and he hadn't. Oh. Fuck. Hadn't kissed him. Or told him. Just disappeared. And then got himself shot. And not even by the 'bad' guys. Who weren't all that bad - it was the damn twelve year old copper who decided he was Clint Eastwood. Okay, he may have been twenty-one. Not the kid's fault. No one's fault, except his. He should've gone back to bed and stayed put, they could have spent two days in bed, or most of two days in bed, but he'd had that stupid nightmare again. Damn. He finally opened his eyes and turned his head just enough to see Sherlock curled up in a chair, fast asleep. Or at least his eyes were closed. He had no idea how Sherlock could fit his ridiculously lanky form into such a small space, but he had. 

For him.

And he had left his phone at home. And his wallet, barely had enough cash for the milk and the biscuits, couldn't buy the jam, which put him in a fouler mood because they were nearly out of jam - owwwwwww - no more breathing like that. If he had just stopped, and thought for a moment, and not flown out of the flat in a strop that nearly matched Sherlock's at his stropiest, he would have, could have prevented what had happened at the Tesco.

"Don't be stupid."

"Huhhhh?"

"It was my fault. If I had just bought milk, or said something about milk needing to be bought, or even just binned the empty carton, you wouldn't have seen the empty carton in the fridge, and dashed out, in search of milk. You were just doing what you do. You see people in trouble, and you act before you think. No. Not what I meant to say. Your instincts told you people were in trouble and you acted. I should have gone after you. But, I thought you just needed space. That you'd cool down, and take a breath, then come back when you were ready. I'm still learning, John. This thing. This 'us?' This you and me, I'm still learning that even though you accept my quirks, for part of what I am, who I am, I'm realising I need to be thoughtful, more thoughtful to you, because I care about you. I'm not good at thoughtful. It takes thinking ahead, and I know how to do that on crime scenes. Piece of cake. But, it's not so easy to do it when it comes to you - I should have thought - and I didn't. And I'm sorry, John."

John looked into Sherlock's face, and had seen his lips move, but the sound wasn't quite registering. There seemed to be some delay. "Did you just apologize? To me? No. I'm the one who should apologize. I knew that there was the strong possibility that I'd have the nightmare after that case, and I didn't warn you. I'm still trying to deal with things on my own, when I don't have to. How long have you been here?"

"Dunno. I'm not quite sure what day it is. I think it was sometime on Monday... not entirely sure what day it is now, they took my phone... Lestrade said he would bring over some of your stuff. I thought about that book you've been reading the last two months, the one you always have next to your chair? I know you wanted to finish it -" Sherlock uncurled from the chair and looked away from John's searching eyes.

"That book?"

"Uhmhmm... I thought maybe you'd like it if I read to you -"

"I've read it lots of times. It's just something I like to read -"

"But, it's a new book - "

John thought about shaking his head, or rolling his eyes, but reconsidered when he saw the confusion on Sherlock's face. "Yes. I think you used my old copy for one of your ash experiments."

"Oh." Sherlock's eyes dropped again. "I should get your nurse, or something -"

"No. Wait. I keep making it worse. I don't mean to. It's just a book, Sherlock, that I reread - don't you have those books you read when you just want to quiet things in your head?"

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, then shook his head. "No. Once I read a book, it stays in my head unless I delete it - books don't quiet my thoughts - nothing does that - except you, John. Just you. And I nearly lost you because I -"

"Come here, please?"

"John."

"Sherlock, before they come in here, and dope me up again, just, please?" Sherlock sighed and got up from the chair, moving just close enough for John to grab onto his arm. "Bend down, please?" Sherlock rolled his eyes but bent closer and closed his eyes as he felt John's fingers in his curls and his breath against his lips. "I love you. I'm sorry I left without telling you. I promise you, it won't happen again." Then he pressed his lips to Sherlock's for the briefest of moments, before pulling away and whispering, "now, could you get a nurse, it really fucking hurts."

"I love you, too." Sherlock pressed the call button once, twice, then a third time and was about to press it again when a flock of nurses invaded, and nudged him out of the way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some time later...

"Need a ride home?"

Sherlock turned at Donovan's voice and shook his head. "Nope." He stopped walking and caught her eye as she stopped her car next to him. "But, thank you, I have to stop at Tesco, to -"

"Pick up the milk?" Donovan tried to stifle a grin, but failed.

"Yeah." He shrugged and offered her most of a smile. "Uhm. I never did thank you for - driving me over that day. So, uhm, thanks, Donovan."

"Anytime. Shoot. I mean, you know what I mean. How is he doing?"

"Yeah, I know what you meant. He's a bit bored, to be honest. He's not good at resting."

"Who is?"

Sherlock shrugged. "No one I know. Listen - when, he's up for it, maybe you'd like to, I dunno, come over for dinner?" He watched her face freeze, and tried to back track. "Sorry, bad idea - I don't know what - forget I said anything -"

"No, it's just, hmm... unexpected, is all. Our history -"

"I know. It's just, ever since - I've been thinking. And John and I don't have that many people, friends - and we've known one another quite a long time, and since we work together, I thought, maybe, we could get to know each other a bit better. Just think about it, yeah?"

Donovan nodded. "I will. Thanks - Holmes. Tell him to get better soon, yeah?"

 

Almost home. - S

Just have to stop and get milk. Need anything else? - S

Just you. And some crisps? And a couple of KitKats? - J

Okay. I love you. - S

Hurry home. I'm bored. I love you, too. - J


End file.
